Neville Longbottom: The Ghost and the Grimoire
by Syd Carton
Summary: What if Neville had been The Boy Who Lived? How would the story have been different? This account follows the first school year of the young heir as he sets out to prove himself to his new friends and his aristocratic grandmother. When he becomes caught up in the middle of events far beyond him, he finds himself achieving more than he ever dreamed. AU: Not even the past is safe.


Disclaimer: If I owned any of the rights to the concept or world of Harry Potter, you would find this story on bookstore shelves, not sitting here, freely accessible, in the archives of fanfictionDOTnet. For all of you who do not already know (which, I expect, is exactly none) those rights belong to Ms. J. K. Rowling.

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Chapter One

A Vision of Terror

The circular room was lit with the soft, warm light of many oil lamps, some of them set on tall iron stands all across the grey marble floor, others fixed in an iron chandelier which hung from the center of the room's high vaulted ceiling. Directly below this chandelier was a raised dais, and in the center of the dais stood a massy writing desk shaped like a Gothic altar. Its dark walnut panels were covered with ornate carvings and scrollwork, and its face was studded with the silver knobs of a dozen cabinets and drawers. On its polished top sat two more lamps, and beside these lay a neat arrangement of glass ink-bottles and ornately trimmed quill-pens, along with a few leather-bound tomes and a collection of small curios. The flickering light glinted on the burnished surfaces of a great many clockwork devices that cluttered the tops of side-tables and chests of drawers all around the room, spinning and oscillating with little hums and clicks that echoed and reverberated off the concave walls, providing the only break in the otherwise perfect stillness.

At the front of the room was a great oaken door set in a tall stone archway. At the far end, behind the desk, were two wide bookcases that spanned the entire wall from floor to ceiling; their shelves were filled with books of every imaginable size, many whose once brightly colored canvas and leather bindings were now faded with extreme age. Between these bookcases was a large painting of the room itself, centered from the painting's own vantage on the unoccupied armchair behind the desk. Life-size portraits of elderly men and women, all seated at similar desks in similar round studies, filled nearly every available square foot of the expansive walls to the front and sides of the desk; the subject of each portrait had been painted drooping in his chair, his eyes closed and his head hanging down or resting on his folded arms in the attitude of deep slumber.

The door in the archway opened noiselessly, and into the room walked a very old man. He was dressed in a robe of dark purple, like a priest's vesture, over which hung his long, silvery grey hair and beard. A pair of half-moon spectacles was perched on the bridge of his crooked nose, and behind them, half hidden under the brim of a pointed purple hat, flashed eyes of piercing blue. They were wise eyes, eyes that had seen the joys and sorrows of a long life, its triumphs and its tragedies, and had not been blind to its lessons. Now, as he entered the room, they bore an expression of grave sadness.

He hung his hat on a brass hook by the door, right next to a threadbare black one, and with a light and measured tread crossed over to a niche in the right-hand wall. There stood a squat pillar or pedestal of the same grey marble as the floor and walls, on which rested a shallow basin of black stone and transparent crystal; its dark rim was carved with arcane runes which glowed faintly silver in the dim light. He took the basin and carried it to the dais, placed it in the center of the desk, and seated himself in the empty chair.

He ran his fingertips around the rim, over the silver runes, and as he did the basin began to fill with an airy silver fluid that shone with an unearthly light, brilliant, but remote, as though it came from a great distance. Fine wisps of lesser and greater brightness writhed and twined around each other in a mesh of dreamy confusion. At times, though, they would weave themselves into a single, hopelessly intricate pattern, like a spider web, which for a brief moment would show faintly through the swirling disorder, and then fade once again.

Reaching his thin hand into his robes the old man took out a small glass vial, which contained a wisp of the same ghostly mist. Removed the stopper he tipped the vial over and poured the wisp into the basin, and there it joined all the others in their restless movements. He stirred the contents with his hand, and they began to seethe, shining brighter and swirling faster, sending up a thick grey vapor that overflowed the basin and ran down the sides of the desk. The man bent over, laying his fingertips on the basin's rim, and stared into the light; the pupils of his bright blue eyes dilated and began to gleam silver.

The room and its furnishings melted away into a mass of impenetrable grey fog, which closed in on him like a crashing wave. The silver mist rose up and bloomed, the wisps of ghost-light dispersing and threading themselves into the shadowy billows that now swept around him in a silent whirlwind. Slowly the fog began to thin and recede, and finally vanished, revealing the four walls of a small chamber that in the near-darkness appeared to be a nursery.

That same instant the air was filled with the reverberating blast of a nearby explosion. The floor shook, and across the room a small figure sat up in bed with a cry of fright. There was a confused exchange of angry shouts, then the hellish cry of a man in mortal agony. It was sustained for nearly a minute in a rising crescendo, every moment intensifying in proportion to the anguish it voiced. The old man closed his eyes, pained grief etched into every line of his pale face, but still he remained where he stood.

Even as the cry rang through the house, pounding footsteps could be heard rapidly approaching the nursery. The door burst open and young woman rushed in. She passed the man without a glance, crossing over to the child in the bed. He was a young boy, about two years old, and he had begun to weep and call for his parents in terror. She lifted him into her arms, paused momentarily to whisper comfortingly in his ear, and then turned back to the open door to flee the way she had come. As she did so the room was suddenly flooded with an unnatural chill that seemed to penetrate to the core of one's very being, poisoning the mind with a paralyzing sense of dread and despair. The young mother stopped where she stood, clutching her child to her breast, and trembled.

Barely visible against the darkness of the open doorway loomed the form of a man, tall and shrouded in black; the hood drawn over its head completely concealed its face in shadow. For a moment it stood there, or hovered, facing the mother in menacing silence. Then it spoke.

"It is often said that mother love is the most powerful force in all of human nature, but could it really be stronger than the love of life? I wonder..."

The words were spoken as a whisper, low and harsh, but with such intensity that they rang in the old man's ears.

The mother raised her face and stared back into the emptiness beneath the hood. Then, with a tremor in her voice that she could not suppress, she replied.

"You must be him, the one they refuse to talk about. Why have you come here? What do you want? Vengeance for your imprisoned followers? Kill me then, as you have killed my husband, but I beg you to spare my son! You have no reason to want him dead. Please, let him live!"

"Hush, foolish girl. You are ignorant, but that is excusable. What could you know of my intent, of my plans? There is no need for you to die this night. A great lord does not seek vengeance for his servants, neither does he avenge himself on the servants of his enemy. Of what importance do you think you and your husband are to me? Lowly Aurors, two of a thousand working for the Department. If it was vengeance I sought, you would not be receiving this visit; that honor would be reserved for the old fool, Crouch. No, I am not here for your sake or your husband's. I have come for the boy."

The woman uttered a strangled scream and fell to her knees, her trembling becoming even more agitated.

"Neville?" she shrieked, "No, not Neville! Not him! Oh God! why? Why must he die? What could you possibly gain?"

The robed figure laughed: a high, dry chuckle that made the old man's skin crawl.

"The answer to that question you may never know, but at this time it is hardly important. I am offering you your life. Relinquish your son, watch him die at my hand, and you will live."

The kneeling woman's free hand flew upward with startling speed, and at the same instant she shouted with all the vehemence of desperation.

_"Dissilire!"_

A bolt of brilliant yellow light shot from her upraised hand and flew toward the dark figure in the doorway. With lightning quickness he raised his own hand and struck the bolt out of the air, turning it back and and sending it darting across the room. It struck a dresser next to where the old man was standing, and blew it to splinters in a burst of yellow sparks. The force of the blast knocked the mother prostrate on the floor, and there she lay, on her side with her legs partially drawn up, shielding her frantically crying son from the flying rubble with her own body.

"Idiot woman!" His voice was like the roar of a cataract. "The Dark Lord offers you your life, and you throw it away with both hands. Did you think you could save your son with this infantile attempt on my life? He shall die all the same, and you will wish that you had joined him."

He raised his hand again, holding in it a thin wand of delicately carved wood; he pointed it at the mother's heaving form, and hissed.

_"Cruciare!"_

She screamed in pain, and her body became wracked with convulsions. The dark figure stooped and lifted something from among the fragments of wood at his feet: a wand, similar to his own, but shorter and plainer. He laughed again, this time a mad cackle of ecstasy, and it burst apart, falling back to the floor in pieces.

The woman's screams became more choked and her spasms more violent, but still she remained with her back to the robed figure and her arms wrapped around her son, shielding as much of him as she could. He too wept and called out to her again and again, his own arms embracing her around the neck and his tear soaked cheek pressed against hers.

"A brave woman, I must concede, but foolish. Such a display of courage and endurance will win you nothing in the end."

The robed figure gave his wand a little twist and jab, and she responded with an inhuman shriek of anguish. Her body bent backwards and twisted halfway around, her limbs stiffened and twitched for a few seconds, and then it ended. She lay silent and still.

The boy, having been flung a short distance from his mother in her last paroxysm, now crawled to her side. Taking her upturned face in his pudgy hands he caressed her contorted features, trying to call out to her again. He could not: his voice was too choked with weeping to let any sound escape.

The dark figure took a step toward them both and drew himself up. Once more he raised his wand, directing it at the boy's kneeling form. The boy lifted his eyes, looking up the length of the cruel wooden spine into the empty shadow beneath the hood. There was fear written on his round face, and even more clearly, bewilderment: his mind was unable to grasp or accept anything that had taken place. It was a nightmare, nothing more, a meaningless and impossible vision of terror and despair; it wasn't real.

The figure in black robes drew back his hand and flung it forward with a shout.

_"Avada kedavra!"_

At that same instant the boy leaned his body over his mother's face and raised his tiny arm to shield her from the blow. There was a brilliant flash of green light, a blinding explosion of white fire, and a long, wailing, chilling cry. Then, darkness.

A grey fog rose up, taking the place of the empty blackness, and again vanished. The old man was in his study, seated at his desk in a cushioned armchair. Before him lay the crystal basin with its silver runes and swirling, shining fluid. He took off his spectacles, laying them lightly beside the basin, and buried his face in his hands.

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Author's Notes:

This is my first real literary attempt, and my inexperience, combined with my obsession over detail, could cause long waits between chapters. I expect the story to be a some time in the making.

All reviews are welcomed, and I look forward to receiving constructive criticism from more experienced amateurs.

A quick note on spells: for Latin incantations the standard suffix '-o' (active; declarative; present; first person; singular) has been changed to '-are/ere/ire' (passive; imperative; present; second person; singular). Thus, _Crucio_ (I torment) becomes _Cruciare_ (Be tormented!). _Dissilire_ is a non-incendiary explosive hex.

S. C.


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